I’ve written very little in 2016 and the year is nearly halfway over.
I’ve got a story that’s gone nowhere, that I need to raze to the ground and rebuild from scratch. I’ve got a very bloated draft of a book, one that I have started butchering down as a book, and a novella, and at least one standalone short story. And I have a single short story that I have written in its entirety this year from scratch. That’s about 13,000 words not counting blogging and some various edits on other projects. This time last year, for comparison’s sake, I was at 88,875 words.
So where did the words go?
I’m not blocked, exactly. I have a ton of new ideas (there are like five or six notes in my google keep tagged as story ideas right now), and I have a number of projects that are in various stages of edits. My creative juices are there–I’m all itching to do stuff any kind of stuff. I keep having these urges to start a web comic or a new knitting thing or take a pottery class just do creative stuff.
The thing that is all janked up is my routines.
Every since I broke my ankle, my life has been barely controlled chaos where before it was a finely calibrated machine. I did almost all of my writing on the bus on my commute into and out of work. While my ankle slowly recovered these last few months, I first worked from home, then slowly started going into the office again. But I wasn’t taking the bus; one of my partners drove me in and back. No commute=no dedicated writing time. No clear delineation of work/home space=no dedicated writing space. Everything bled into everything else. And! Recovery is really hard! Emotionally and mentally draining. Lack of spoons=no mental energy for writing.
I can walk now, but only kind of. There’s a definite limp*, and I can’t walk nearly as far as I used to without stopping, so I’ve had to adjust my bus route. Now I’m on the express bus, on a different route, which is shorter, more crowded, and also more interrupted. It’s not as good for writing.
I need to create new routines. No routines=no writing. I’ve got a plan; let’s see if it works. In the mean time, I’m trying real hard to remember that writing is a marathon, not a sprint, and that a four month dry spell is a blip on the radar, not a condemnation of all my abilities.**
*Y’all that ankle was shattered. Twelve pins in that ankle, and they are never coming out.
**THANKS SEVERE ANXIETIY DISORDER, GLAD TO HAVE YOU HERE.